Middle Ground Triptych
by TSylvestrisA
Summary: Sherlock, Greg, and John come to an agreement about paperwork. Written with strangegibbon. Slash: Sherlock/John/Greg.
1. Middle Ground

**Middle Ground**

**(Part 1 of Triptych)**

Summary:

Sherlock, Greg and John come to an agreement about paperwork. Co-written with **strangegibbon**. Slash: Sherlock/John/Greg.

A.N. Slashy goodness involving men doing slashy manly things with each other. Seriously, this is slashy, slashy, slashy. If you do not like slash _(how do you live? What do you do with your time?), _you should hit the back button now. Do not go any further and then pretend to be surprised that there is slash, okay? There is slash.

And by slash, I mean smut.

Cross-posted here and on AO3 (in strangegibbon's body of works over there).

* * *

"221b, Friday night. Bring any paraphernalia you think might be necessary although don't bother with condoms," says Sherlock, peremptorily, as if that's a proper end to a conversation.

"You what?"

"Deaf as well as painfully slow, Inspector?"

"Wait a minute - I'm lost, Sherlock."

"Now there's a surprise. Let's replay the events of, oh, _thirty seconds ago_, shall we? You said 'where's the damn paperwork', I said 'I'm sure we can come to some sort of mutually agreeable arrangement', you said 'like what?' and..." He spreads his hands wide. "Everyone up to speed? Jolly good."

He exits in a swirl of coat, leaving Greg and John rolling their eyes in tandem over the unspeakable mess that used to be something sentient splattered between them.

"Er," says Greg.

"Yes, well, perfect." says John briskly, rubbing his neck and staring after his flatmate. "Um, up for it, then?" A beat where they eye each other appraisingly, making sure all intentions are correctly suggested, understood and confirmed.

"You all right with this?"

John grins, radiating amusement tinged with affection and hunger. He steps around the puddle of gloop with care and moves closer to the suddenly flushed policeman. "Oh _God_, yes. Sherlock's been playing up a bit recently. Quite fancy taking him down a peg or two."

"We get to pull him up again afterwards?" says Greg, hooking a finger subtly through John's belt loop.

"If you like."

John watches the older man fiddle with the material and frown. "Sure I won't get in the way?" he says uncertainly after a visible struggle. "What if he changes his mind at the last minute? I mean, you two-"

"You know Sherlock once he's made a decision. He suggested it, he won't back out now, you know what he's like."

"Yeah." They share a conspiratorial grin. "No middle ground with that one."

"Thank God."

Greg hesitates, eyes running over the other man, hoping his poorly concealed hunger isn't perceived as desperation. He knows all too well what it's like to be manipulated and discarded without a second thought.

"Don't," says John softly, pressing into him. "I've seen you looking. We both have. You just haven't noticed that we've been looking back for a while now. I do what I want to, not what Sherlock tells me, despite what everyone might think. Don't worry. I wouldn't agree to this with anyone else, all right?"

"All right."

A slow, gentle smile tinged with mischief and John leaves. Greg watches him go, wondering what on earth he's just got himself into.

###

He's not really sure what he's expecting when he stands at the door on Friday night with a bag of takeaway curry in his right hand and one of a few favourite sex toys in his left. He'd felt odd tossing his handcuffs in there but the cuffs _are_ handy and John did say they were going to be working Sherlock over in the best kind of way. There'd been more than a few times over the years he'd nearly gotten a hard-on at the thought of snapping cuffs around the arrogant bastard's wrists and now he might have a chance to actually do it.

He thinks about the half-inch thick stack of paperwork on his desk that's going to take hours and hours of overtime to clear up, the paperwork that's Sherlock's fault, and yeah, suddenly he's okay with the handcuffs and on top of that he really hopes he has a chance to see those posh lips wrapped around his cock, spit running down that imperious chin whilst he fucks the mouth that causes him aggravation on a daily basis. He's not sure exactly what he's going to be allowed to do here but the condom remark seemed awfully promising.

And then there's John. Sherlock's the one who draws the eye, all that flash and bang and swirling coat, and God yes, who wouldn't want to fuck that, but if a fellow pays attention and looks beyond the distractions, there's John, quiet, polite, easy-going. Look a bit harder and there's the rest of John, the man who's used to being obeyed, who knows how to use his body, who's giving it to Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis and keeping him pretty damned satisfied if the incessant updates are to be believed. Greg knows very well John's hands aren't as clean as he and Sherlock pretend they are and that helps him relax, actually, because it means nothing Greg wants tonight is going to scare or shock the other man. The way John moves sometimes-hips loose, shoulders back, head high and balanced-all but screams _sex_ and Greg would very much like to learn what skills Three Continents Watson has picked up in all those places he's been.

Bloody hell. Is it good manners or not to show up for a threesome with a stiffy? _Can't believe I'm worrying about social niceties where Sherlock is concerned._

It's John who opens the door, of course. Greg's flattered when he says, "Really glad you came" and runs an appreciative eye down his body, lingering in the right places, before taking the curry and gesturing to the table which is, for the first time Greg can remember, clear of anything but plates and cutlery. "Beer's in the fridge, help yourself. His Highness is busy faffing with his website so we'll just get on with things and let him join in when he's ready." The light in his eyes says he means that _exactly_ the way it sounds and Greg feels his nipples come to points as the other man smiles wickedly at him.

He clears his throat and says, "Glad to be here. Never thought - well, I never expected _this."_

There's small talk and takeaway and beer for a while and Greg and John laugh and trade stories whilst Sherlock mutters insults at his laptop and he'd say it's no different from the hundred times they've met up at the pub except that there's an extra warmth in John's gaze, a speculation he's not seen there before. And he decides that by God, he'll not be shy about this. All those nights sweating alone in his bed, hand between his legs, fantasising about dark curls brushing his cock, strong, blunt hands running over his chest, sliding down to press behind his balls-

As though he's reading his mind, John holds his eyes and gives him _that_ grin, the one that stirs his prick every time. Licking his lips and then biting the lower one, he sets his beer on the table and pushes out of his chair. He moves into Greg's space, raising his eyebrows for permission just like he does at a crime scene, and when Greg nods he slides those clever hands under Greg's jacket, splaying them over his ribs and _Christ_, it's been a long, long time since someone touched him like this, like he's a desirable man. John's watching his face, his breathing has sped up and it feels so good to know someone wants him.

"Kissing okay?" John asks, and from the corner of his eye Greg sees Sherlock's head snap around. John leans close and breathes, "Ignore him," into Greg's neck, still not touching, "he's being a brat," and Greg nods slightly and slants his mouth against John's which gets him a pleased moan and a rub of strong hands up his back and _damn_ it feels wonderful to have someone respond to him like this.

John is..._bloody amazing_. The thing he does with his tongue makes Greg's nipples tighten and his prick swell even more and he brings his hands to John's hips whilst spreading his knees to make room for him to step in closer. He's trying to ignore Sherlock but it's not easy because the man's eyes are boring holes in the back of his head. John drops his mouth to Greg's jaw and murmurs, "God, you taste just like I thought you would," against his skin and Greg can see he's getting an erection too, so he just forgets about the conniption Sherlock's having back there and relaxes into the smaller man.

John's kept himself quite fit. It isn't at all obvious under those jumpers but he's got a nice bit of muscle on him and just a little softness over the belly, like Greg himself. John hums and pulls Greg against him, sucking on his neck until he lifts his head long enough to say, "Okay to leave marks?"

He thinks about looking at himself in a mirror and seeing purple bruises, looking down at himself in bed tomorrow morning at the evidence of John's desire, and his voice is as warm and peaty as single malt when he says, "oh God, _please."_

There's a sudden metallic snap, which, twinned with the sound of a chair skidding backwards hard enough to set their teeth on edge, startles them both.

"I'm _bored,"_ announces Sherlock, standing rigidly by the desk, eyes glittering and lips tight. He hurls his laptop carelessly at the sofa. "When you two have finished groping like teenagers come and find me. I'm not going to wait around all night." Whirling, he strides towards the bedroom, back as stiff as an angry cat, swiping Greg's bag of toys from the floor as he passes. _"If_ I can be bothered with either of you now."

John and Greg share a long look and then collapse into each other, muffling their laughter in warm chests and necks.

"Dear me," gasps John. "Someone's having a colossal hissy fit."

"Looks like it. When he suggested this did he actually think it through?"

John snorts. "As much as he ever does."

"Not at all then." Greg takes a handily placed earlobe between his teeth and sucks gently, smiling at the shiver the sensation causes. "You know, we shouldn't let him get away with such bad behaviour."

"God, no."

"Are the two of you coming or not?" Sherlock barks irritably from the direction of his bedroom. There's the thump of something solid hitting the door.

"Not yet," sniggers John, looking down between them and waggling his eyebrows. "Think he's throwing his toys now," he remarks, eyes closing as he nuzzles into the side of Greg's face.

_"My_ toys, more like. Come on. We ought to do something about that little tantrum of his."

"Right behind you."

###

Sherlock's sitting on the edge of his bed, fisting the sheets and trying to glare a hole in the fabric of the universe when the two men enter.

"Hello, Princess," says Greg easily. "Waiting for Princes Charming, are you?"

"'Charming' is not the word that springs to mind when I look at you," says Sherlock nastily.

"Now, now, Sherlock," chides John. "Be nice or we'll leave you in here alone and continue what we started upstairs."

"You wouldn't _dare-"_

"Wouldn't we?" replies John mildly. He reaches out a hand, tugging Greg towards him, and licks his way into his mouth with a smile. "Someone needs to know he's not in charge, I think. Not in here, anyway."

"Hmm. Well, then." Greg grins devilishly against his lips.

John moves first, shoving Sherlock flat on his back with a grunt and straddling him. Sherlock yelps in surprise and twists, at first indignantly and then with a hint of panic as Greg crawls onto the bed, unbuttons his jacket and yanks it halfway down his arms, effectively trapping him.

"I don't think," says John evenly, taking hold of a handful of hair and pulling Sherlock's head back so he can mouth at his throat, "you quite understand what's going to happen here tonight."

"You see," Greg continues, deftly unbuttoning the tight trousers and drawing them down and off as John shifts to allow the movement, "you're going to do what we tell you to, no arguments, no bitching, and when we've finished with you there'll be no complaining, I can assure you of that, sunshine. Up?" He raises his eyebrows at John, who nods. They grab an arm each and draw the younger man up the bed, pulling the jacket off completely. At a nod from John, Greg seizes the tight white shirt and rips it, buttons pinging everywhere before peeling it off a distinctly dazed looking consulting detective.

"Grab the headboard with both hands," orders John, running a hand up a slim inner thigh and palming Sherlock through his underwear to an answering gasp. "You let go and it's all over."

Greg sits back on his heels momentarily, watching the sea-glass gaze flit between the two of them, finally resting on John who places a hand on the crest of a hipbone and raises his eyebrows fractionally. Sherlock dips his chin in agreement and turns his attention to Greg who is caught by the silent exchange and envious of the level of trust evident between the two men, feeling like an intruder despite everything he's being offered. A soft touch on his thigh; he looks down and sees John's small, solid hand resting there, drawing him back in before it drifts to the waistband of the boxer briefs, Sherlock's final barrier, and tugs invitingly. Greg curls his own hand around the elastic and suddenly Sherlock is gloriously naked in front of them, cock twitching slightly under the twin scrutiny.

"Lovely," he breathes, and John pulls him into a deep kiss, running a hand over the smooth pale chest beneath them as Sherlock presses his face into Greg's crotch, inhaling deeply, a small sound of approval vibrating the long, white throat.

John tilts his head, lips sliding against the other man's, leaving them as wet and shiny as wave-touched shingle before sucking at his jaw. Watching them, Sherlock shifts with an impatient noise and the two men break apart to look down at him admonishingly.

"You play nicely, now," murmurs John, bending to lick quickly at a pale pink nipple which firms beneath his tongue. "We'll get to you soon enough."

Apart from being rumpled, both men are still fully clothed with Sherlock naked and gloriously splayed between them. John reaches over and loosens Greg's tie, drawing his hand down the silk and tugging lasciviously. "Pretty sure we can come up with a use for this later. Now, I think you and Sherlock should take some time to get to know each other."

Blue cat eyes glitter as they meet brown. "Don't mind if I do," murmurs Greg, bending to nip at a smooth clavicle before tracing it with his tongue. Sherlock raises his chin and gasps quietly, arms trembling with the effort of grasping the wood above his head.

"Hands to the side, Sherlock," says John. "But no touching."

There's a grunt of acquiescence which segues into a hitched moan as Greg smooths the pad of his thumb over a nipple.

"He's sensitive."

"Oh yeah," replies John, pleased at his lover's responsiveness. He watches as the silver-haired man rubs more firmly and then pulls the other nipple between his lips. Sherlock arches and groans, hands flexing against the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as Greg circles his tongue and pinches lightly.

John rubs himself through his jeans, cock twitching as Sherlock writhes, trying to press himself against the older man's trousered legs, his smooth white skin a delicious contrast to the dark of the material.

"Mmm. Should have brought my camera." He takes hold of a sharp hipbone and presses Sherlock back against the mattress hard enough to leave fading prints where his fingers were. "Stop wriggling."

There's an icy glare and a toss of dark curls, but Sherlock holds still as Greg laves him with the flat of his tongue, Sherlock's mouth falling open at an experimental nip. Humming in pleasure, John takes the opportunity to suck at the plush lower lip, undoing his jeans and pulling them to mid-thigh.

"Can't have you doing all the work, mate," he says to Greg who pauses a moment in appreciation, watching John slide himself between those soft, pink lips, before moving further down the stretch of pale body. He presses his fingertips into the creamy curve of a hip and admires the rush of blood marking his progress, sucking gently over the blush of colour.

"Mark you down here," he murmurs, shooting a glance at John, whose pupils dilate in response. "We'll be the only ones who know you're our property now, yeah? Our little fucktoy." He re-fastens his mouth on twitching skin, sucking hard and leaving a trail of bruising kisses over a pale thigh, moving inwards, spreading Sherlock's leg to allow him access to the sweet musky salt of his perineum. "You taste fucking amazing," he mumbles as Sherlock spreads his legs wider and moans shamelessly. "Bit more, sweetheart, let's have those knees up, shall we?" He wriggles in between the soft thighs, lifting one over his shoulder, watching John heft the other over his forearm as he leans in to plant a soft, approving kiss on Greg's shoulder. "Spread out for me, God I want to feast on you. Do you know how you look right now?"

Sherlock peers up at him through a damp tumble of hair, panting and rolling his hips. "Lestrade-" he groans as a soft tongue laps at his hole. _"Greg-"_

"Hush, darlin'. You'll frighten the neighbours."

"I need-"

"I know what you need. I'm going to give it to you-now put that pretty mouth to better use." Greg turns his head and opens to John, who moans at the dual taste of him and Sherlock on his lips.

Sherlock's shoulders come off the bed when he laps at him again, eyes wide and fixed on him, mouth working soundlessly until John grasps his chin and turns his head back towards his crotch.

"He's good, isn't he, my love. Just like you said he would be. Don't get too distracted, now, suck me off while I watch him eat you. Come on."

John opens his mouth as Greg proffers a finger, swirling his tongue around the digit suggestively enough to make him shudder, dropping a hand to card through Sherlock's hair as his head bobs gently below him. Pale eyes follow the path of the wet finger downwards, falling shut as Greg nuzzles at the base of his cock and slowly starts to push in, flickering licks over skin and clenching muscle.

"Oh, I think he likes _this,"_ breathes Greg, slowly pumping his finger in and out to an involuntary buck, the whimper muffled by John's slow movements. He adds another finger, pressing gently and mouthing up the shaft, tightening his grip as Sherlock twists urgently and tries to impale himself on the teasing blunt pressure of his digits.

"Stop it," John says sharply, pulling Sherlock's head back and nipping at his chin. "Or we'll make you suck us both off first and you'll get nothing, you hear me?"

A pause. Sherlock's eyes flash briefly and then roll back as Greg shoves his fingers in hard and sinks his mouth down on him, sucking ruthlessly.

"Let's see if I can't finger all that posh boy attitude out of you," he rasps, grabbing the thigh over his shoulder and forcing it back against the marbled chest, holding him in place, gripping around his ankle hard enough to bruise. The younger man's back arches convulsively as he sets up a punishing rhythm, working his fingers hard against the other man's prostate to escalating gasps.

"Want to hear you," says John, voice low and rough, slipping himself out and fastening his lips on the damp, flushed neck. Each pass of the fingers causes a whimper until Greg adds a third, twisting his hand as Sherlock's back bows and he lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a sob. John sits back on his heels. "Look at you, all wet and open. I think Greg should fuck you now. Are you ready for that?"

Sherlock pants, cheeks crimson, gaze flicking between them both. "What are you waiting for? Christmas? Get _on_ with it."

"Condoms?"

"In the nightstand if you want them, but-"

"Oh, for God's sake, why do you have to turn this into some kind of production?" snaps Sherlock impatiently. "Lestrade, we're clean, we know you're clean, and neither of us wants you to use a bloody condom. It's quite simple, even for you to understand. Now get on with it."

"No lack of romance in this bed, is there?" Says John, equal parts irritated and amused. "But if you want to make sure, our print-outs are in the drawer as well."

"How pissed off am I going to be if you tell me how on earth you know my results?"

"John made me wait until your divorce was final to proposition you - he has some absurd hang-ups about fidelity. If you don't want people knowing your STD status then you shouldn't keep the paperwork in your briefcase."

"My _locked_ briefcase which happens to be in my _locked_ desk."

"Please don't kill him. It would upset Mrs Hudson." John deliberately distracts him with a warm, wet pull of lips and teeth at exactly the right spot on his neck, the one that makes him feel hungry and desired, and he decides he'll let this one go. "You can still use them if you want - shut up, Sherlock, yes he _can_ - but I've been looking forward to seeing our boy here wet with you, overflowing with you, white running down that ivory skin." John's voice is low and intimate and pure unabashed seduction. He runs a thumb over Greg's lower lip, watching it tug slightly as it slides and catches his breath before looking up into Greg's eyes. "And I want to taste you, want to come inside you. Would you like that? Would you let me?"

How long? How long since someone wanted that from him, wanted to do that with him? His eyes drift shut on a long, shuddering inhalation, and when he breathes out it's as reverent as a prayer. "Yes. God, _yes."_

_"But,"_ adds John, "I think our Sherlock needs a few more lessons in manners first, don't you?" He pulls Greg towards him, slanting his mouth messily against his, crawling over Sherlock to pull the policeman onto the mattress half on top of him. "Detective Inspector, I'd like to make up for my associate's intrusions into your personal space."

"Hmm," manages Greg. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Stay there," John barks at Sherlock, who is trying to sit up, before directing a slow, crooked, mind-meltingly sensual curve of his lips at the older man, pulling Greg onto his side and sliding down the bed head first. "Think _I'll_ take care of this particular apology." His nimble fingers make short work of trousers and pants and Greg inhales sharply when he grasps him and breathes "I'm sorry" into the damp curls of his crotch. "I'm sorry," he whispers again, drawing his tongue slowly along the shaft, pausing to swirl it around the swollen glans, pumping his hand, once, twice at the base. He pauses, mouth open, breath warm over the tip as Greg shivers, watching him descend teasingly towards him. Flicking a glance at Sherlock, he sees he's just as mesmerised as he is by the soft mouth moving to swallow him. John hesitates again, lips barely touching him and both Greg and Sherlock quiver in anticipation.

"Sherlock?" says John softly, waiting.

"I'm _sorry,"_ rasps Sherlock, eyes glittering, gaze fixed on the frozen tableau in front of him. He gasps as John finally, _finally_ takes Lestrade into his mouth, echoing the other man's convulsive groan. In response Greg pulls John towards him hungrily and slides his lips over the almost painfully hard cock in front of him, feeling saliva rush into his mouth as he takes him in. He shudders as John moans around him and tightens his grip, both men losing themselves in slick heat and soft, stroking tongues.

Sherlock watches them, breathing harshly. "Visually and aesthetically pleasing," he observes, voice low and rough. "Symmetrical, a study in contrasts I wouldn't have expected. Silver against gold, an ouroboros comprised of precious substances." He crawls across the bed with a hungry, feral growl to peer down at them. The next thing Greg knows, long spit-slicked fingers are pressed against his arsehole and John's swearing as Sherlock's tongue circles his own opening.

"Greg-" John's voice is unsteady as he pulls off him. "I'm close. In your mouth - please, God, can I?" His body's trembling as he holds himself back - that's John, always polite, Sherlock would've probably just shot down his throat - and yeah, Greg wants nothing more at that moment than to see his control shatter, to feel him and taste him and to know he caused that. The sound he makes around John's prick is all hunger and acquiescence hearing an answering moan from Sherlock muffled against moist skin, and with a cry John lets himself go. He's loud and uninhibited, his body falling open - limbs splaying, back arching, head thrown back, offering himself up to pleasure and to his partners. Greg sees rapture on his face and _he_ did this, _he and Sherlock_ did this, and pride bloody near tips him over the edge himself.

He runs his hands up and down thighs steadily, soothingly. John's taste is familiar and new at the same time. Christ, how many nights has he come into his own hand wondering just what John would taste like, how he would sound and look and smell when he came? Now he knows, now it's right in front of him, and God, there's still Sherlock to discover yet. Just like that, the _need_ to have Sherlock writhing helplessly beneath him takes his breath away. He lets the wet, softening cock slide out of his mouth, runs his hands up John's still trembling body until he can lock them around Sherlock's wrists, and rumbles, "You. I'm having you now. Get on your knees and tell me yes."

John's back arches again and he says, "Oh, that _voice_. God, you could almost bring me off again with that voice." Then he chuckles, low and filthily, and drops a kiss onto Sherlock's hair. "Better do as he says. I don't think he'll be as patient with you as I am."

Sherlock's clearly torn between wanting Greg's cock up his arse and balking at being ordered about, and Greg smiles wolfishly at John. "Or _you_ could roll over and spread for me, sunshine. Would like that just fine." Sherlock snarls and wedges himself between the two, coming to his knees facing Greg and glaring before turning to put his head in John's lap and muttering, "Yes."

John laughs and strokes his hair. "Oh, he knows you too well, my beautiful control freak. This should be good." And then, speculatively, "Will that offer still be open for later?" His eyes are heavy and sated and alive with anticipation as he looks at Greg whose breath hitches.

"Be my pleasure," he manages to get out after a second.

"For God's sake, will _one_ of you get back to the task at hand and _touch me_ or do I have to do everything myself?" Hisses Sherlock, twitching with frustration and anticipation.

John quickly grabs his forearms, freezing the hand headed for his dark, swollen prick. "No. Understand? _He_ decides when you get to be touched. Greg decides how, and when, and how much, so if you're smart-" Sherlock snarls again. "-you'll do what he tells you."

Greg runs his fingertips over the satiny skin on offer and grins. "He hates the fact he loves this, doesn't he? Not being in control of the situation?"

"I don't-"

"You're dripping on my leg, so I wouldn't bother denying it if I were you." John shifts, stroking curls away from the flushed man almost face down in his lap, and says softly, "Just let go. We'll take care of you, you know that. Stop thinking."

"I can't. You know I can't. I can't turn it off."

Greg doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Being offered sex is one thing, but what these two are letting him into right now is something entirely different and it leaves him feeling off-balance and shaken.

"Okay." John bends double and lays his head over Sherlock's. "Okay. We'll help you. We've got you." He presses his lips to Sherlock's temple and straightens, and when he speaks again his voice has changed, deeper, more authoritative. "Greg's going to fuck you," he says. "He's a bit bigger than you're used to, so you're going to feel it. You're going to feel it and take it and love it, aren't you?" Greg takes himself in hand and slides along the cleft exposed to him whilst John rolls pale nipples between his fingers, petting a smooth flank as Sherlock cries out sharply. "Aren't you?"

Sherlock's silent except for ragged breathing, and Greg leans on his cock just a little, still wet from John's mouth, just pressing on the puckered skin under him but not pushing in. Sherlock gasps and wriggles, trying to push back, but John pulls his arms up and takes him off balance just enough to stop him. "Say it," Greg says, following John's lead. "Want to hear you say it."

Sherlock groans in frustration and his cock jumps when John drags his head up by a fistful of hair and nips his earlobe. Greg teases, circling, pressing and retreating, teasing him with his length, shaking his head when Sherlock clamps his lips shut.

"Right," says John, "let's raise the stakes a bit," and with a suppleness Greg envies, he reverses and slides under the younger man. "Be good, Sherlock. You know what we want to hear." Greg can just barely see him, but the sound of a very wet mouth repeatedly slipping off the head of a cock are unmistakable, and he can see John's hand lightly tugging Sherlock's balls, not letting him get off.

Sherlock whines, a high, pained sound, and he braces his forehead against John's knees, forearms starting to shake. "Yes," he whispers. "Yes, please."

Greg rubs his thumbs over the hips he's holding and slides in achingly slowly. John hums in approval and Sherlock clenches around him, biting his lip. "What was that? Can't hear you. _Louder."_ Greg says, voice steely. "You either want it or you don't. No middle ground here."

He stops sliding until a gasp bursts from those perfect lips, until that damp face lifts and drops again on a long agonized groan. "Please, anything you want, please, just _move."_

He pushes in until he's seated flush against that lovely arse and rests there, planting soft kisses on the salty lower back. His balls are so tight it physically hurts not to shag the living breath out of the man, but the small, frustrated squirms the body under him is making are worth waiting for.

_"God,"_ Sherlock grates, arching uncontrollably against the deep, sweet pressure, "God, please, move, just _move, MOVE!"_

_There we are,_ Greg thinks. _That's it. He's finally starting to give himself over._ The wet noises from beneath change and John's left hand slides up to squeeze his own. He grips the dark tendrils at the base of his neck and softly shakes him by the scruff, enough to rock that pale, gorgeous body and wring another groan from that long throat.

"Wait," he says chidingly. "We've loads more experience than you, sunshine, so you behave for once and let us make this good, yeah? If we tell you to wait you wait. You move when we say you can move and not before."

John lightly runs fingernails up and down his inner thighs, and Jesus, how does he make such a light touch feel so good? Greg's subsequent shiver reverberates through both the bodies under him. John makes a noise that vibrates through Greg's chest and Sherlock has to press his head against John's bent knees to stay upright.

Greg moves suddenly, just one sharp snap of his hips that drives Sherlock into John's mouth and elicits a bitten-off whimper that has to be one of the sweetest sounds he's heard yet tonight. Sherlock tightens around him, hot and quivering, and Greg gasps, "Oh, _Christ."_ Then John's working a finger into him and white starbursts are exploding behind his eyes. He's dimly aware John's also strategically distracting Sherlock with little tugs to keep his attention right where it ought to be and his admiration for the man knows no bounds. His fingers are bruising the glistening skin stretched tight over undulating hips and God, it's nothing short of beautiful.

Sherlock drops his head again and nuzzles John's half-hard prick, flicking out his tongue. "Both of you. Tastes like both of you, _oh."_ His whimpers become long, draw-out whines with every breath.

When he tries to thrust into John's mouth in desperation, he's rewarded with a stinging slap on his rump. Greg withdraws almost completely whilst John lets the younger man slip out of his mouth, craning his head up to kiss Greg sloppily; holding a hip in place as Sherlock tries to twist around to watch. When they finally break apart John administers his own slap, admiring the damp, flushed flesh now marked by his hand.

"See what being greedy gets you, Sherlock? I told you not to move unless we allow it." Greg's chuckle is so deep it surprises him. He rocks gently on his knees, shallow, teasing thrusts that make Sherlock drop his head onto his arms and groan low in his throat.

"You don't do _anything_ until we say you can," John tells him, rolling his sac thoughtfully in one hand.

Greg slides his hands up to Sherlock's nipples, rolling and plucking. "Jesus, you're beautiful like this," he croons, and he is, desperate, exposed, arse arched into the air and trying to push back, searching for the friction denied him. "Gonna make you come screaming," he promises to an answering writhe until John cruelly clamps Sherlock tightly in place and adds, "But not one second before we tell you to."

"Can't," groans Sherlock, writhing restlessly. "Too much. I can't-"

"You'll take what we give you and more," says Greg, giving his nipples one last punishing twist before licking a wet stripe up the side of John's neck. "Stop up that mouth, will you, darlin'?"

"Gladly," replies John with a sigh, shifting out from beneath and turning around, sinking his hand into damp curls before tugging gently. Sherlock's head cants up, heavy-lidded and slack-mouthed like some debauched Michelangelo's David and John takes the opportunity to slide his rapidly stiffening cock between those shining lips.

"Gorgeous," breathes Greg. "Could come in your arse just watching you suck him off. Wouldn't even have to move." Sherlock whines around John, flanks trembling, but manages to hold himself still.

"Good boy," murmurs John, stroking the gleaming column of neck and pumping his hips gently. He meets Greg's eyes with a decidedly vulpine grin. "Reward?' '

"Hmm." The inspector reaches down, giving Sherlock's cock a languorous stroke, snapping his hips into one deep thrust that forces a hoarse shout from the shuddering man between them. "Why not? I'm feeling generous."

Sherlock's deep cry around his length makes John tighten his hand in sweat-damp curls and gasp, "Jesus, that's good. Keep him like that, will you, Greg?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart." Greg starts snapping his hips with long, agonizing pauses in between thrusts. "You want to have him when I've finished up here? I'll keep him primed for you."

Sherlock whines, a high desperate sound, and John taps his cheek sharply and orders, "Keep sucking." To Greg he says, "Oh, yeah. Never had him already slicked up before. And our boy needs to learn to do what he's told."

Greg picks up his pace, thrusting deeply and circling the base of Sherlock's cock as he begins to gasp and tighten around him, pulling his mouth off John and tipping his head back. "Oh God, I'm going to come."

"Don't you dare," orders Greg with a brisk tug on his sac that causes Sherlock to curl around himself and whimper in frustration. "Not until we've finished with you."

A few more slams and abruptly he stiffens, thrusting into Sherlock one last time and emptying himself with a shuddering groan, fingers biting hard enough to leave even more bruises on the circling hips. Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_ that was good. He never wants to move again, but that's just cruel to Sherlock, who's all but sobbing in desperation. He bites his lip, breathing deeply before finally pulling out and nodding to John.

"Your turn. Should we let him come?" He adds to John, "I might be ready for another go by the time you're done." He bends to whisper into Sherlock's hair, "'cos you're fucking human Viagra, aren't you sweetheart? _Christ."_

Sherlock moans again and Greg straightens, reaching underneath the arching body to slap away the pale hand inching towards the swollen cock.

"We'll see if he earns it," John says. "Sit in front of him, put your thumb between those ridiculous lips and press down on his tongue until you're ready for his mouth again, yeah? Makes him drool. God, he's pretty that way. You'll see." He lines up his swollen prick and groans, "Jesus, that's so good. He's dripping with you, Greg. It's slick and shiny and he looks _filthy_ with it."

Greg hums appreciatively. "Hands on my knees, and don't move unless he tells you to, got me?" he tells Sherlock. "You come before he says and I swear we'll spread-eagle you over this bed, tie you down, fuck each other all night and make you watch."

Sherlock's sob of frustration morphs into a full-throated scream as John rams home.

"Fuck," gasps John. "You're so tight, sweetheart. On the edge, aren't you? You're going to feel so lovely around me when you come. Not yet, not yet." Sherlock sobs as John thrusts slow and deep, a sweet ache that tears sounds from him that make Greg twitch again despite coming so recently, shuddering exhalations heating the too-thin air around them until it's almost a continuous sussuration, a litany of lust and need. Greg slides beneath him and takes him in his mouth and Sherlock cries out as if in pain, "please, please, _please"_ tumbling from his open mouth.

"That's it, beautiful, my gorgeous, gorgeous love," croons John. "You want more? I think you do." He sticks two fingers in his mouth and carefully slides them into Sherlock, groaning at the tightness before swivelling them downwards to swipe gently over his prostate. Sherlock bucks and cries out again, beginning to tremble in earnest, exhorting, cursing, begging, pleading, body coiling and tensing as Greg's hands come up to trace circles on his lower back.

John doesn't have to warn Greg that the man between them is nearly overwhelmed; that couldn't be any clearer.

"Not yet, not yet, sweetness. Give me a little more, that's it, hold on just a little more," he says, smoothing a hand over a trembling flank whilst wicked fingers stroke and press at Sherlock's prostate.

Greg swallows around the hot length in his mouth and Sherlock's limbs shiver, agonized sobs wracking his rigid body.

"Fuck," John inhales sharply. "You feel so good, love, so, so good. Let go, my brilliant love. My clever, extraordinary love, come for us, sweetheart, come on, my amazing, beautiful, brilliant love-"

Sherlock moans as Greg replaces his mouth with fingers and slides up his body.

"Want to see your face, you fucking gorgeous creature. Want to see your face as you come all over my chest." He rears up to capture his lips, swallowing his escalating cries before fastening on his neck briefly, hand working over the painfully hard cock. "John, you should see him. I want you to come buried in that wonderful arse. Will you?" John nods, eyes squeezed tightly shut, his movements quickening, the slap of skin against skin becoming faster, more urgent.

"God," gasps Sherlock, neck arching. _"God-"_ His ruined voice is a breathless squeak as he tenses, quivers and then convulses almost silently, coming over them both, covering their chests and Greg's belly before finally, finally letting out a breath which is almost a groan of pain and burying his face in Lestrade's neck. Greg brings up a hand to card through sodden curls, whispering soft encouragement and soothing noises into his ear while behind him John curls into his lower back and comes with a shout, hips gradually juddering to a halt before he eases out and collapses beside Greg, pulling an almost insensible Sherlock to lie half on, half between them.

Sherlock's ragged sobs are still shuddering out of him and John tenderly pulls his head back to murmur soft, private endearments in his ear, laying a light trail of kisses along his jaw, along that elegant neck. Greg strokes his other cheek and says, "so goddamned beautiful. Christ, that was gorgeous. You two-" He doesn't have the words for what he wants to say.

He wants to say, "thank you for letting me in. What you have is the most sacred thing I've ever known." He wants to say, "I didn't know sex could be like that." He wants to say, "do you think this could be a regular thing? I'll bring pizza and beer and you and I'll bring Sherlock to tears, pull him apart and put him back together, fuck until the rest of the world goes away and it's just us in here, no-one else."

What he says is, "s'okay, darlin'. That was something else. You were amazing," then sucks in a deep breath. "John, you let me know when you're up for another round, yeah?"

"Didn't scream," murmurs Sherlock, shifting against him, cracking open one bloodshot eye.

"Not yet," replies Greg, voice roughening. "There's plenty of time for that." He smooths a hand down a heated flank, reaching the other out to pull John closer and presses his smiling lips to his. "Don't forget you've still got a lot of paperwork to make up for."

* * *

tbc

Authors' Afterword: This was a one-shot that grew out of a deliciously fun exercise that led to much hilarity, considerable sleep deprivation, and a temporary burp in the progress of two WIPs. We're sorry. But not terribly.

It might become a more-than-one-shot. UPDATE: **Has **become a more-than-one-shot.

If you winced at the wholesale slaughter of innocent commas and capitals that do not exist where they ought to in this piece, _it's not my fault._ That's all I'm saying.


	2. Give Them an Inch

**Give Them an Inch and They'll Take a Mile**

**(Part 2 of Triptych)**

A.N. As noted before, this is slash, and so involves men doing slashy manly things with one another. If that does not appeal to you then I am deeply puzzled but urge you to go and have fun elsewhere. If it does appeal to you, enjoy.

Co-written with **strangegibbon**; posted on AO3 under her account and on FFNet under mine. We are entirely unrepentant.

* * *

When Greg comes to an indeterminate amount of time later he's drowsily aware of two things. The first is that there is an expanse of warm skin curled at his back and the second is that a wet thumb is gently rubbing at his lower lip, deft fingers perched along his jawline. Tentatively he touches the tip of his tongue to the questing digit and is rewarded by a faint huff of amusement.

"Good, you're awake," rumbles Sherlock in a timbre so thrillingly deep Greg feels his stomach swoop and he fastens his lips around the now-motionless thumb before opening his eyes. Sherlock is propped against the headboard, sheets tangled around his hips, eyes bright and half-lidded, fixed on the shiny swell of Greg's mouth around him.

"Yeah, some of that might have been due to you shoving your hand in my mouth," he says indistinctly and Sherlock smirks. "Let me guess," he sighs, drawing away with one last suck. "Got bored, did you?"

"Worse," says Sherlock in a low voice, careful not to wake John. "Got curious."

"Oh God."

He watches in trepidation as Sherlock slides down the bed and rolls to face him, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Indulge me, Detective Inspector," he murmurs. "Shall I tell you what I've deduced about you so far? In bed?"

"I've a feeling you're going to tell me anyway," replies Greg, pressing himself a little more firmly against John's still-sleeping form, watching the moonstone eyes move over his face and body.

"You're moving closer to John for reassurance. You're concerned," murmurs Sherlock. There's no need to be. You like to touch and be touched. You haven't been touched in a while, not by your wife, not by anyone." He tilts his head as Greg flushes. "No need to be ashamed of that, either. People are stupid, I've always said so." After a short pause he lays a warm, dry hand on Greg's thigh, watching him carefully. "Does that help?"

"Uh. Yeah. A little." It doesn't, not really, because Sherlock avoids contact with _anyone _other than John or Mrs Hudson (instantly he banishes her image from his mind before risking temporary insanity) and it feels odd. But it's also strangely touching that he's ventured this awkward gesture in order to make Greg feel better. Sherlock narrows his eyes slightly and Lestrade catches his fingers in a quick caress before he withdraws them. "It's nice," he adds.

"You've had fantasies about all of us together. Obvious."

"How is that obvious?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and doesn't bother to reply, sliding his hand tentatively over Greg's inner thigh instead.

"You're still not sure what you're doing here."

"Sorry?"

"Why we asked you here," continues Sherlock with a touch of impatience. "You're used to rejection, manipulation; you fear you're a novelty, that we'll discard you afterwards as nothing more than an interesting experiment."

"I—"

"You really should work on that low self-esteem, Inspector. Yes, you've been cheated on, likely emasculated by a wife casting constant aspersions on your love-making abilities when you couldn't get it up after you found out about the serial affairs—"

"Hang on—"

"—and at work you're continually undermined by a colleague and unable to solve the simplest cases without help—"

"—fuck you!"

"—as well as having to play errand boy for the most unbearably pompous minor government official in Britain—"

"—I am _not_—Greg tries to sit up, anger and humiliation gouging holes in his chest, but then strong, tanned arms tighten about him and a firm voice snaps, "_Shut it, _Sherlock" as he's turned around to face a distinctly pissed off looking John.

"I'm just saying—"

"_No_. Enough."

Sherlock closes his mouth with an audible click and something between a pout and a huff, narrowing his eyes mutinously at the both of them.

"Sorry," says John softly, pulling him against his chest. "He always manages to be a total arse when he's actually trying to be helpful. It's a gift."

"Helpful?" exclaims Greg, another irritated huff from behind him streaking warmth over the side of his jaw. "How on earth was _any _of that helpful?" He jumps as a warm, sleek body slots against his back, silky hair dragging across the nape of his neck.

"Translate for me, would you, John?" Says the low voice in his ear. "I don't speak pedestrian."

"What he's _trying _to say," says John with a sigh, "very poorly, is that you shouldn't worry about anything. We want you here. Both of us do. For as long as you want to be here with us. He's also being a bit of a twat because he's getting less attention from me than he's used to, that's all. Remember he's the one who suggested this."

"That's what I said," murmurs Sherlock indignantly.

"No you bloody didn't," replies Greg, resting his forehead against John's and trying to slow his frantic heartbeat.

"You misunderstood me," answers Sherlock. "Fine. You're comfortable with John, I'll tell you what I deduce, you tell him whether I'm right or not although I'm never—"

"Just leave the wife out of it, Sherlock," says John firmly, stroking up and down Greg's hip.

A long-suffering sigh, this one resonant enough to coil heat in his belly, cutting through the anxiety and hurt. "_Ex-_wife. And if I must."

John jerks his chin in a sharp nod and brings up a hand to gently turn Greg's face, leaving it resting along his jaw. He kisses his nose and strokes a thumb along a cheekbone. "Relax," he says softly. "I'll shut him up if he gets too near the knuckle." He leans in to brush his lips against Greg's. "Remember you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but," he ghosts his lips over his again, "it'll help us make it better for you. Whatever you want, Greg, just tell us what you like."

"Okay," says Greg with a decided exhale.

"Oh, good, we all agree then," says Sherlock impatiently, even as he trails an exploratory hand up between Greg's thighs. "Am I _allowed _to continue now?"

"He's like this most mornings," confides John in an undertone, "at least until his first orgasm of the day."

"Explains a lot about his behaviour up until you two started shagging," returns Greg with a grin, flinching a little at a warning pinch on his inner thigh.

"You're an intelligent man," says Sherlock without preamble.

"No, he actually means that," supplies John at the glint of suspicion in the dark eyes.

"You've risen to the top of your chosen profession, yet you're quite happy to hand over control of your investigations." He circles a thumb firmly over Greg's sacrum, gently rubbing his hardening cock against a smooth backside. "Earlier tonight you were happy to play the alpha male but your fantasies are quite different, I think."

"Mm," says Greg non-committally, arching his back to press into Sherlock, drawing in a sharp breath as John strokes a finger over his nipple.

"Is that what you want?" breathes John. "To give yourself over?"

"You're tactile," continues Sherlock. "Some would say sensual if they were feeling sentimental." He catches John's eye over the inspector's shoulder and his mouth twitches into a smirk at his approving smile. "You want to be overwhelmed." He drops his head to mouth at the back of his neck. "I think between us we can manage that, can't we, John?"

John must see something in his eyes, some uncertainty, because he draws him in closer, trapping him in the warm cradle of his arms, stroking down the length of his spine.

"Greg," he murmurs, softly mouthing the tender spot behind his ear, "would you do something for me? Would you let go? Could you? Lie back and let us make you come?" When he hesitates, surprised—that's it? Just...do nothing?—John blushes and whispers, as if confessing to some depraved sin, "I've wanted to see that for months."

"Yes," Greg manages, flushing in turn. "I'd...like that very much."

"Let's see about specifics then," says Sherlock briskly. "You're still unsure about letting us take the lead. To be expected, I suppose, when you've had to be the one initiating any uncomplicated sexual encounter for, oh, I'd say the last three years or so." He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "Four." Drifting a long-fingered hand around Greg's hip, he continues to grind maddeningly slowly against him.

"No, no, that's not right. The wife would sometimes—"

"Not unless she wanted something. Or to shut you up."

"Sherlock_,_" says John warningly, feeling Greg stiffen.

"All right, all right, I'll leave her out of it," grumbles Sherlock and then shifts, hand moving to absently rub against Greg's belly. "Although it's a relevant piece of—"

"_Sherlock_—_"_

"Oh, _fine._" The hand pauses for a moment and then continues."You move closer to John when you're unsettled—"

"Which is quite fucking often at the moment—"

"Sorry," whispers John, trailing a hand up the back of his neck to nestle in his hair, fingers twining through the thick, soft strands. "But I think he may have a point, despite him being a massive twat about getting to it."

"—so we should have you resting against him. Sit up, both of you," he orders, twisting onto his knees and shoving pillows unceremoniously towards the headboard.

"All right with you?" asks John, and when Greg nods in response he shifts so his back is against the pillows, pulling Greg up to rest on his chest, head propped comfortably on his good shoulder, arranging his thighs around him. "Mm, yes, like this. Good view from here," he adds warmly, reaching down to stroke along Greg's chest and down to his groin, cupping his balls to an answering shudder.

Sherlock's eyes gleam blue and feline sharp as he appraises the two of them together.

"You're quite delightfully visual, Detective Inspector," murmurs Sherlock, flicking his tongue over his fingertip and giving him that _smug_ _irritating fuckable _smirk which first lifts one side of his mouth and then spreads as a rush of blood colours Greg's face as well as areas lower down. "In fact, you'd be a halfway decent detective if you weren't so distracted every time John or I bent over at a crime scene."

Lestrade shifts against John. "Greg," he manages, to another twitch of the lips. "Call me Greg."

"I think not," replies Sherlock. "This time around we should defer to your proper rank. So," he lowers himself onto his belly, between spread thighs, and blows gently along the inner surfaces, raising hairs in his wake. "Why don't you tell us what you'd like us to do, Inspector? We'll be good." The deep voice, impossibly, drops to a lower register, as dark and smooth as fondant. "I promise."

Greg's eyes rove over him, taking in the avid gaze, the sculpted face and the long, sinuous white back, but he scrabbles for the proper words, his nerve failing him in the bright glare of Sherlock's focused attention. He tips his face towards John's, meeting his gaze with uncertainty. John presses his lips to his forehead and tightens his legs around him almost imperceptibly.

"You trust him," says Sherlock in a low voice and Greg glances at him, catching a brief flash of vulnerability before it's quickly hidden. It's not much but the pang of guilt it elicits is enough to dampen his anxiety to hesitantly raise his hand and extend it towards him. After a pause Sherlock touches his fingertips tentatively and brushes them feather-light with his own. "You've had fantasies about me. I'd like to know what they were."

Greg hesitates again as Sherlock's eyes move over him and there's something almost supplicant about his position, sprawled between his legs, a question in his eyes, but it's hard to force the words out knowing this brilliant, imperious self-declared sociopath could seize and twist them into a noose with which to choke him at any time. There's John, however. John, who is kind and decent and the only one who can curb Sherlock. John, who told him he was wanted and desired and not just by him but his willful, volatile partner too.

"Your mouth," manages Greg, after a steadying breath and another reassuring squeeze from John. "Around me." His cock twitches at the image and he drops his eyes, feeling his face heat.

"Is that all?"

The air is thick and heavy and Greg inhales with an effort, his thoughts whirling around themselves, muting him again. He's aware of John's palm coming up to his mouth and hovering there and without thinking he licks a wet stripe across it, feeling the other man chuckle beneath him.

"Go on, Sherlock," prompts John, curling his hand around the head of Greg's prick and squeezing gently, moving the foreskin over his swelling glans with slow flicks of his thumb.

"It would seem that area is currently occupied," observes Sherlock thoughtfully. "Of course there are others I could use my mouth on." He dips his head and presses an almost chaste kiss to his balls, extending his tongue to delicately lap at his perineum.

Greg jerks suddenly, his mouth falling open and back arching, conscious of the other man's sharpening gaze.

"Something you rather like doing but not an act you've had performed on you, it appears," he says after a pause. "Granted it takes a rather open-minded female, it is quite intimate after all, and the male companions you've had, likely picked up after hours from pubs or bars, you haven't been able to ask." Tilting his head he lays a palm on Greg's thigh, the touch sending tingles of anticipation up his spine this time around. "You'd like me to do this for you, Inspector. May I?"

"Yes please," stutters Greg, caught by the intensity in the silver-blue eyes and the flush on the high cheekbones. "God, yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face lights up immediately, an almost childlike glee transforming his expression, and Greg suddenly realises that he's been waiting for him to ask him to, no, to _allow _him to act out his fantasies and at all once the undercurrent of shame, the fear of divulging his most secret desires is gone and he sighs and opens his legs further, relaxing into the warm expanse of chest behind him.

"Use your tongue on me, Sherlock. I've been dreaming about this."

Sherlock smiles, radiating pleasure, and ducks his head slightly as if ashamed of his eagerness, shooting a sidelong glance at John who hums in approval, hand still moving languidly over Greg's cock whilst his other traces fluttering, complicated patterns over a nipple.

Settling onto his front again, Sherlock dips his head and noses his way up Greg's inner thigh, dropping lingering kisses with a hint of teeth as he works his way towards the crease of his buttocks, pausing to lift and place a leg over his shoulder. He flicks a glance at John who seizes the other and draws it over his thigh, leaving Greg splayed and deliciously open, both men watching the detective run a lascivious tongue over his lips as he admires the view.

"You giant drama queen," says John, vibrating with laughter. "I'm never letting you watch porn again. Get on with it."

Greg laughs helplessly, his eyes snapping shut at the first touch of the warm tongue to his most private area, hissing air through his teeth at the jolt of pleasure arcing through his belly. Sherlock laps at him lazily, as languid as John's hand on his cock, soft groans of pleasure escaping him as he peers up at Greg who breathes in again sharply when he presses a thumb against the sensitive seam of skin under his balls. The points of pleasure—John's fingers at his nipples and cock, his mouth at his ear, Sherlock's thumb firm on his perineum, tongue at his entrance—begin to expand and radiate outwards, waves of sensation buffeting and tangling until he's gasping, biting at his lower lip to try and stifle the wanton noises threatening to escape him. It's almost too much, too intense, and then Sherlock pulls away suddenly to move up his body, wiping his chin on Greg's stomach before slanting his mouth against his, sharing the dark taste of salt and musk between them.

"Delicious. Let yourself go," he murmurs. "You're not alone, not touching yourself in the dark, in secret, thinking about what it would feel like to have my mouth on you, John's hands on your body. You're here with us." He slithers back down and sucks at the delicate pucker, a wet, open-mouthed kiss that has Greg clenching involuntarily until a slippery tongue probes at him, filthy and wet and unbelievably arousing.

"I want to hear you," says John unsteadily. "Christ, you look gorgeous, all spread out for him. Greg, let me hear you."

John moves his hand in long, smooth strokes, twisting it over his glans, plucking at his nipples alternately in a staccato rhythm and Greg turns his face into the damp column of neck and groans low in his throat, thighs quivering involuntarily.

"That's it," says John, his voice low and pleased. "Beautiful. You're so hard, I think you could come from his tongue alone, couldn't you?"

Greg moans again, breaths shallow and quick, and forces his head up, mouth falling open at the sight of Sherlock, eyes half-lidded in pleasure as he licks at him. With a deep breath he drops a hand and cards through the tousled curls before drawing him up slowly, pulling him in for a slow, messy, deep kiss that makes both of them tremble. He rests his forehead against his for a moment, gathering himself.

"Want your fingers in me. Imagined you fucking me, Sherlock," he rasps, eyes closed. "Deep and hard. Is that..? I mean—"

Saying it out loud tightens iron bands of anxiety around his throat because he's never asked for anything like this before, not in such blatant, self-serving terms, and for a moment he's afraid he's gone too far, demanded too much; he's still the outsider after all, what if this is the point where they decide he's an imposition rather than a participant? He opens his mouth to fill the sudden silence, to take it back if he has to and shift the focus elsewhere, onto them, he'd do anything they wanted if it meant being allowed to stay, if he could just—

"Yes," say both men simultaneously and he has to blink and re-gather himself, trust the answers aren't just a product of his fevered imagination...but they aren't because Sherlock is kissing him again, deeply and urgently, and John is murmuring soft words of approval in his ear, running his fingers over him as if trying to reach every area of skin possible. Greg whimpers with mingled relief and arousal, hands coming up to grip at the smooth, firm shoulders above him.

One of John's hand leaves for a moment and then he's holding out a bottle of lubricant to Sherlock, who looks as if he's going to wave it away. "It's been a while for him," John reminds him, and Greg might have been embarrassed by that but he says it in a way that makes it sound like being practically celibate was something sexy he did just for Sherlock and John and they want to reward him for it. Greg's prick twitches, John's hand rubs circles over his breastbone, and Sherlock takes the lube with darkening eyes.

"He's, ah, very good at this," John says hoarsely, eyes fixed on the fingers that are snapping open the bottle cap. He clears his throat without a bit of self-consciousness. "Can keep you right on the edge for hours, God, until you're out of your mind-not a_ word,_ Sherlock."

Greg knows neither of them missed the jerk of his body when John talked about this—oh, _this,_ one of his very favourite acts to perform, one of his most private fantasies—not as a means to an end, not just about getting him ready for a shag, but taking time, making it good, making it last. Something a lover would do, someone who cared about you and wanted to see you dizzy with pleasure more than he wanted to fuck and come and be done with it.

Sherlock captures and holds his eyes as his hand slowly disappears below the curve of Greg's body. He presses back into John, anticipation and hope leaving him unsteady. The touch, when it comes, is butterfly-soft, unexpectedly tender, and makes his breath hitch so hard he can't make a sound.

"Hours," whispers John, warm lips grazing his ear, as Sherlock's fingertip circles slowly, not even probing, just sliding over him, exploring. "We want you here, Greg, with us. We'll take care of you." Strong, warm arms tighten around him possessively as a second fingertip joins the first, tracing slick trails over him before one dips in shockingly, just the very tip, in and out, and then goes back to tracing him as if nothing had happened at all. Greg's guttural cry of hunger draws a pleased chuckle from John and a smouldering look from beneath dark, damp curls that has him shuddering.

The flat pad of the finger presses against his opening, tapping ever so slightly, and it's hardly anything at all but it keeps going, keeps building, until Greg can't help but twist and thrust his hips. He doesn't even know what he needs; he's not trying to bear down, not trying to pull away. He simply can't be still under Sherlock's soft touches and avid gaze, but it's fine because John is there pressing wet kisses to his neck, holding on so Greg can give himself over to Sherlock without reservation. So he does; he lets himself fall into the safe, sturdy grasp behind him, lets his body and his desires unfurl like a long-dormant plant to the rising sun.

"Oh, yes," breathes John shakily. "That's it, Greg, thank you." Sherlock says nothing, but bends his head and rubs his cheek across Greg's belly, inhaling his scent as the fingertip continues to tap steadily against him.

Greg hears words tumbling from his own mouth: _I wanted this for so long; God, yes, please; _and other broken, heated phrases whose honesty would have him blushing if there had been any thought of holding back anything at all but there isn't, not anymore. They can have it all, because they'll take care of him, John said so.

He doesn't know how long it's been when he comes back to himself, but his throat is hoarse and the chest under him is damp with sweat where he's been thrashing his head helplessly. He's half-aware he's still begging, and there's the sweet, hot stretch of another finger forcing a cry from his throat as his lower body arches off the bed in response.

"_More."_

"Yes, yes, now, Sherlock, now. I want—" John claims his mouth messily and it's so _good,_ so exactly what he needs that he grinds down on the fingers inside him and clutches at John's arms. "—want to see this. Stroke him, he's ready."

He's confused because John's hand is already on his cock, still stroking him steadily, slipping the foreskin along his soaking head over and over. Then Sherlock's fingers move _just so_—

The world fragments into little white stars and he thinks he's come, but it happens again, and then again as Sherlock repeatedly glides over his prostate but never quite lets him go over the edge. John is murmuring in his ear—encouragement, affection, lust—and he presses his burning face against bare skin gratefully, unable to tear his eyes from the pale, incandescent stare that pins him helplessly in place. There's a flush across the porcelain chest and it's fucking beautiful, God, it's for him and it's so gorgeous and he wants to say so but the words are lodged too deep in his throat.

"John?" Sherlock asks, still holding Greg's gaze, still touching him inside, making him writhe.

John shifts to look into Greg's dazed face, placing a palm against his cheek. "Oh, yeah," he says, and briefly closes his eyes and shivers. "He's ready, aren't you, Greg? Yeah. Move him up onto me, I'll help hold him open."

He feels himself gently settled, cradled and kissed and spread wide, John's thighs bracing his own. Sherlock's beautiful mouth dips down over the head of his cock and he arches into John's hands, which are drawing at his nipples, sliding down his ribs to clasp his thighs, and oh, more, he needs more, he'll go insane if he doesn't have it.

"I'll give you more," Sherlock promises, and he realises he's been speaking aloud. "Deep and hard, like you wanted. I'll do that for you."

John's got him, Sherlock's taking him, and this is not a dream, not some midnight fantasy, it's real and he _needs_ this. He can't help the frustrated, desperate noises as he strains towards what he wants so badly and Sherlock inhales sharply and takes himself in hand, moving closer, positioning himself against him.

The length that slides into him is smooth, hot, so very wet, and he can feel it all because there's nothing between them, and he's _never_ done that before. It burns and aches and he's crying out brokenly, "Fuck, yes, good, fuck, _more,_" and Sherlock answers, "Oh, _yes_," low and dark and sibilant. John reaches down, just barely able to graze where they're joined, touching them both as Sherlock eases in the final fraction. Greg keens when the push continues, shoving his body farther up John's chest and his own prick farther into John's clever, willing hand.

"_God_," is all he can manage as Sherlock leans forward, kisses John heatedly, and starts to move.

The thrusts come as slow, hard rolls that lift and rock his body and yes, Jesus, that's _perfect_. John's behind him, solid and warm, Sherlock's as deep as he can go, pressing into that sweet spot with every other snap of his hips, and God, he wants it go on forever.

"That's beautiful," murmurs John, smoothing a hand over his damp forehead and kissing his reddened skin. "Want you so much, Greg. Please, please let us have you." His thumb slides over the dark head of his cock and Greg gasps and writhes. It's never been like this before. Not for him. So slow, so raw, every nerve alight and blazing. He's wanted and treasured, and the icy darkness that's been wrapped around his heart withers more under every heated moan from Sherlock's throat, every mark John burns possessively into his shoulder.

Sherlock angles up and if it was perfect before, now it's beyond perfect, it's absolutely _mind-meltingly_ intense. Greg makes a noise he never knew he was capable of and Sherlock's face lights up again, smug and sweet and maybe just a little bit shy. He hears John groan, feels him shiver when he pushes back into him, feels John's mouth close on his neck and his arms wrap around him even more tightly, his hand moving relentlessly on Greg's aching cock.

Then fingers pluck at his nipple just as Sherlock brushes his prostate again and Greg discovers a whole new tessitura of sounds he's never made before.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice is rough and predatory. "Again. I want to hear you." He grips Greg's hips for leverage—hard enough to bruise and yes, God, that's good—and starts pounding him, fast, deep, merciless. It's so perfectly what Greg needs that his body goes slack and his head falls back against John's good shoulder, every breath a moan forced out of him by the blunt, sweet drag of him inside. "Louder."

He doesn't know how many times he's nearly gone over the edge only to have Sherlock change his rhythm and his angle, keeping him blissed out and unfinished, making it last, but finally he can feel it's going to happen regardless. He's far beyond words but John understands and tightens his hand around his cock, John is the one to say, "He's coming." Sherlock grabs his face and crashes their mouths together, swallowing Greg's escalating cries and releasing all his iron-willed control, hips stuttering in wild, desperate thrusts.

The orgasm blazes through his entire body, dancing light electrifying his skin, blinding him, cracking him wide open. He's shouting at the top of his lungs and there's no stifling anything even if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to, he wants to make a gift of this, give them as much as he can of himself. He clenches around Sherlock's cock as he comes and distantly hears Sherlock spend himself with a near scream, grip iron-hard on his hips; Greg is as smugly pleased about that as he can be in his current wrung-out condition.

For a long time, nobody moves. Sunlight creeps along the walls and the sounds of life outside the flat drift in through the window, mingling with their gradually slowing breaths and the occasional sigh.

"Really need to breathe at some point," John says eventually, reluctance evident in his voice.

"Shit, sorry," mumbles Greg, still dazed, and pushes at Sherlock until they both roll off the man beneath them.

Greg presses a kiss to John's salty thigh, cards his fingers through dark, sweat-stiffened curls. "Thank you," he says softly. Sherlock sits up abruptly and reaches for his face, but stops at a sharp look from John and, after wavering for a moment, looking to John again for guidance, he lies down, spooning wordlessly against Greg's back. John slides over and tucks Greg's head under his chin. He wipes his damp face on John's chest and they just lie together, a triptych slotting together as easily as if fashioned to by some master artisan. Warm breath ghosts over his neck and he shivers.

"Will you stay?" asks Sherlock, and Greg almost laughs that the question's even asked. "You can even go on about paperwork again, if you like, although that certainly should have made up for some of it."

"Have to," he replies lightly. "My arse'll be too sore to leave for a day or so. And bloody _hell_, yes, it did."

"Fuck you again later, then." He can hear the grin in John's voice. "Twice as hard."

* * *

tbc


End file.
